Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies OR Sharpies OR Starburst OR Marlboros OR Camels OR Bic lighters.

April 17th. 3rd hour.

Squeeeeeeeak... slam!

I glanced in the mirror—that Mark/Specs guy from yesterday was standing behind me, digging in his pocket.

"I brought my own today," he said proudly, holding up a pack of cigarettes in one hand and a lighter in the other. Marlboros. I didn't like those much. Not like I had a favorite brand or anything, but I mostly smoked Camel cigs.

He lit up and stepped up to the sink next to me. I continued ignoring him.

"So, Dutchy—"

"Ivan," I interrupted.

His face fell. I went back to smoking and minding my own business. There was silence for a few minutes, in which I dropped my butt to the floor and pulled out a new cigarette. I flicked my lighter. Nothing happened.

"Fuck," I swore under my breath.

"Need to borrow mine?" he asked.

I stared at him for a minute. I felt like saying, that piece of shit lighter? No, thank you! but I did need a light... I reached out for it instead of saying anything at all. After I lit my cigarette, I dropped the lighter in my pocket.

He stared.

I smirked at his reflection in the mirror that covered one entire wall of the bathroom above the sinks. He put out his cig and said, "You're an asshole." A strange expression swept over his face.

"Am I?" I took a drag.

"Yeah." He continued to stare at me in the mirror.

"Alright." I dropped my cig, steppingon it to put it out as I pretended to walk away. Then, pivoting, I threw a punch at Mark's face.

My knuckles collided half with his nose and half with his mouth. Despite the pain I could tell (by his eyes) he was going through, and the blood, he did nothing.

"I'm an asshole," I said quietly, "and you're an ugly, boring fucker." I got a Sharpie out of my pocket—people often said my pockets carried everything except the kitchen sink—and scrawled:

MARK IS AN UGLY FUCKER!

I stood back, admiring my work. The words were in huge bubble letters across the mirror. I allowed myself to throw one quick glance in his direction. He looked more amused than insulted.

"You're pretty immature," he told me.

"So's your mom."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, wonderful comeback."

I shot him a glare and stalked out of the bathroom.

Same Day, 7th Hour.

"Shit, do I always run into you when I come to smoke?" I complained. Mark had walked in and gone over to a urinal. He dropped his pants and peed. As much as I hated the fucker, he was big. Definitely bigger than me. I scowled at my reflection and took a drag. My face scowled back at me from beneath the letters "ug" and took a drag as well.

Mark came over and washed his hands. "Um, I'm sorry," he told me. "But you are kind of an asshole."

I smiled a little. After digging around in my pocket a bit—I found keys, a half-eaten half-sandwhich, three pens, my crumpled up English homework, a bottle cap, a used kleenex, a few paperclips, my cigs, my wallet, a Starburst, my iPod, and finally what I was looking for—I handed him his lighter. "And you are kind of ugly and boring," I joked.

"You can have it if you need it," he told me.

I held up a new, yellow Bic lighter I'd bought at lunch.

"Okay..." he took his lighter. "We cool?"

I pretended to think. Somewhere between our fight this morning and now, I had actually started to like this fucker. "Yeah."

I snuffed my cig on the mirror, leaving a burn mark, and left.